


We are the kings seeking our aces out

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Forbidden Love, I Did That, M/M, Medieval?, More Characters to Follow, Oh yes, Pining, Robin Hood-ish, Royalty, and I’m not sure it deserves better than sitting on my hard drive for six months, yeah i don’t know what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: “We’re here,” Robbo said in a low voice, “to help with the revolution to remove the royal family and finally make this country one run by the people... And since the prince is probably going to be the first casualty,” he shook his head, “I wouldn’t get too attached, is all.”-Robin Hood-era/style AU where undercover insurgent Adam Lallana has trouble choosing between his cause and the first in line to the monarchy he is meant to be undermining, because His Highness Jordan Henderson isn’t so bad, actually.
Relationships: Jordan Henderson/Adam Lallana
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48





	We are the kings seeking our aces out

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to be full of pining and not nearly as spooky as the blurb suggests, I promise. 
> 
> I haven’t written in a while and I’m trying to get back into it by writing something super indulgent and if it’s too similar to the equally indulgent Captive Prince series (Which we all wish we had authored)... soz. Also I’m now writing full time with a self-correcting keyboard so I apologise in advance.
> 
> Elena is the best royal advisor of all time!!! This universe isn’t particularly based on any I’ve come across before so it might take some time to build.
> 
> Title is from No New Friends by LSD (that’s Sia, Labrinth and Diplo to us).

Their horse started to slow, pulling up slightly on the bridle like a hint to turn back. Adam wondered if it was because horses could smell fear, as if there was a stench from the nerves swirling in his gut. Outwardly he was sure he showed no sign of it, although they had been silent for the last portion of this journey.

He told himself it was more likely that the sudden jitter of the horse’s hooves as they rounded the crest of the hill had to do with the city becoming ever more visible in the distance. Though still far away and built up into the side of the valley, even from here it seemed to glitter. Adam told himself it was an illusion: of the flags flickering through the sunlight and hazy smoke. The narrow turrets of the keep stood starkly out from where castle blended into the surrounding city that stretched, and stretched. To an animal, it must be jarring to be so close to the unfamiliar sights and smells, so much activity after months in the forest.

“Jarring to the _animals_?” Robbo whispered, half-murmuring the words to soothe the packhorse between them, running his hand up and down the side of her straining neck. “What? Have you ever seen something like this before?”

Adam had been here once, as a small child. His family had been invited up from the south to the court, back then, before everything changed.

“No,” he lied.

“Neither have I,” Robbo said, “and I’ve never seen anything like it. How do so many people fit in one place?” Then, “how can they _stand_ it?”

Adam agreed silently. The city would take some getting used to. He pulled slightly at the bridle wrapped tight around his hand, urged the horse forward with them.

There was no need to discuss what they were there for any further. Himself and Robbo had been preparing for it for months, down to every small detail – the pots and pans tied among the saddle bags, the eastern spices wrapped up in Adam’s knapsack that he kept close to his chest, probably worth more than his own life. It had been weeks since, but he missed the weight of his bow sitting snugly into the arch of his back. His biggest sacrifice in all of this: archery was not a sought after requirement in a cook. Robbo, similarly, looked awkward without his arrow sheath – still hunched over a little as though he expected the weight of it. He knew their lack of weapons left them exposed, and they both felt it. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, making him sweat.

As they approached, they noticed the smell of the city: hard on their noses, anything but fresh. Adam felt the jitters grow through the bones of the horse, and he willed her to be calm. The battlements towered over them already, and it was still half a day away. 

As the castle grew ever more large, it threw them into shade. More people began to join them on the road: horses and carts, workers with packs slung over their backs and their clothes dusty from a day’s work in the fields, traders with their trailers overflowing; with wrapped goods lurching from side to side as their donkeys tired.

The first sentries at the city walls dropped their spears in their direction as he and Robbo approached, but Adam produced the magic letter from the inside of his shirt – tucked in safely at his chest, because there were rebels on the roads these days after all and valuables should be guarded – and they waved Adam through, amongst the carts and the people milling through over the drawbridge at the end of the work day and under the threatening portcullis.

The end of it’s spikes in view felt like a warning, like the giant yawn into a trap. Adam shook the notion from his head and kept walking.

They followed the crowds in through the inner walls, thick as four oaks, and over the moat. The water was low, Adam knew the river that filled it came from the high walls of the valley and it ran low in the summer. Then they moved through the second set of gates: more guards, stopping people as they went through. Robbo dropped his head, an effort to appear less threatening.

Again, the letter was produced. The guards took more time to examine the seal at the bottom of the page: a group of them ringed around the gate, their swords weighing down their belts. Again, Adam and Robbo were nodded through with the briefest of directions on how to reach the keep. Not that they could have missed it.

In the evening light, the huge castle built into the valley wall was not the grey stone of the region, but shone silver like the armour of the King’s guard that had allowed their entry. It was hard not to be transfixed by it, stunned by it – all of the ramparts, the twisting turrets, the glint of color from the stained glass of the windows, the many layers of palace rising to tower over them and cast them into the shade.

Robbo gave a low whistle. Adam conceded they could be forgiven for staring. It conveniently blended with their cover. It truly was spectacular, even though it stood for all they both wished to undo.

They guided the horse between them, initially through narrowing streets that rose steeply – the heat and the smells weighing heavy on Adam’s senses. The doors to most homes opened onto the street, washing lines criss-crossed over their heads like celebratory bunting. Children ducked under the bellies of their horse, fascinated by it, chided by their parents. They were strangers here, but something about these streets felt welcoming, like they had been made at home despite being barely wide enough to fit them. The cobble stones under their feet that rose up in the occasional step were worn smooth from centuries of use.

Adam knew they must have accidentally diverted down the scenic route – surely, if the King’s company regularly departed in their hundreds they would not all fit down these streets at once - but he didn’t mind. He could smell dinner cooking from someone’s window. His stomach rumbled at the thought of the beef stew in the pot, spiced with spignel. Smelled like home.

Eventually the streets broadened and the sense of ancient town planing became more apparent. The architecture became more grand, the windows larger, the arches to the alleys more ornate, actual and perfectly formed houses nestled together. Adam decided they must be for courtiers, for nobles. There were no children in the streets anymore.

Eventually, they reached the fortified doors of the keep. The gates here were smaller, more heavily guarded. Adam produced the letter for what he hoped was the final time.

The sentry at the gate – short, brick-like in stature but definitely in charge, something about the way his armour was more finely trimmed than his fellows – took the letter from him. Adam could tell by the make of his plated armour and his color of his tunic that they were no longer dealing with the King’s own guard, possibly now the Prince’s themselves. And, to Adam’s surprise, this sentry did not look at the seal at the bottom of the letter but actually started to _read it._ At least, that’s what it appeared to be, since they couldn’t see his face behind his visor.

Adam could feel Robbo staring at him, could sense he wished to ask the same question. Adam could read. Robbo could read. Such was their circumstances. Palace sentries, or the royal guard in general, were not known for their literacy.

The sentry pulled off his helmet, tucked it under his elbow. To match his brick-ish stature, this guy’s head was also sort of square; Adam thought it unkindly.

“So we have,” the guard began, his voice like gravel; “one cook,” he looked at Adam, “and one scullery boy,” he looked at Robbo, “for the Court and guard of His Royal Highness?”

Adam nodded.

The guard narrowed his eyes at him. He said, “you’re not what I expected.”

With difficulty, Adam managed a smile. “Oh?” He asked, politely. 

The sentry folded the letter and handed it back. Adam’s first kind thought was that somewhere under all those pinched eyebrows, the guard looked like he possessed a sense of fairness and was not, as Adam had come to expect, drunk on his own sense of superiority.

“No,” he said, nudging Adam’s hand in jest as he placed the letter in it. “There’s a saying where I’m from,” the wink was so quick it may not have been, “never trust a skinny cook.”

Reflexively, Adam looked down at himself – not that he would have seen much, under his many wrappings of his traveling cloak, and not that it would have mattered because he was not actually a cook but instead built in every way for battle.

“We’ll see,” he said pleasantly. Robbo coughed a little into his glove.

The guard smiled, and now held out his hand.

“James Milner,” he offered, “Captain of the Prince’s Guard.”

“I’m Adam, but you knew that,” Adam said, taking it and shaking. “This is Robbo,” Robbo reached over and shook, too.

Captain Milner looked to either side of him. “Let them in,” he said, and the gates started to open.

The difference between the streets of the townspeople and the inside of the Court was stark. Their horse’s shoes clipped too loudly off the stone as they crossed the wide courtyard – it was too open, it was too _clean._ Their horse was taken from them halfway across by two stable-boys who were already dressed better than the people in the streets surrounding them, as though their clothes had been made for them uniquely. Even from a distance Adam could tell they had been threaded finely, made of the softest materials. Their shirts alone were worth more than Adam himself.

 _Clean._ Everything was far too clean, like it had been scrubbed. Everything from the stable-boys to the cobbled ground of the courtyard to, when Adam looked at how the courtyard sat the tier below the palace garden as the keep stepped up; the neatly trimmed hedges and trellis.

“It’s been standing five hundred years, give or take a few,” Captain Milner explained proudly, completely misinterpreting Adam’s stare as one of awe for the gigantic, complicated construction that was the royal home. “Also give or take a few turrets, there has been many a siege here.”

Adam nodded, still troubled by the stark divide in wealth on either side of the walls. He had assumed, as they had slowly made their way through the winding streets of the city, that everyone lived like that, lived like _he_ had, and Robbo had. Even when it came to the grander styled homes outside the gates.

Adam had been born into nobility, once, after all. This was another level.

As Captain Milner lead them through the grand palace gates and even grander entrance hall – so big, Adam decided, that it would comfortably fit his village back home inside – through the other side, into the Great Hall. The fact that the captain of the prince’s guard was giving them a tour, sent a message Adam couldn’t quite understand. Surely he had better things to do? But no: the hall, Captain Milner explained in clipped tones, was being readied for a great celebration for the Prince’s departure on military duty next week.

Which, Adam thought, might explain some of the _clean_.

Adam knew, of course, of the Prince’s imminent departure south with a company of soldiers. The picture perfect image of the golden prince off with the country’s best men to crush the rebellion in the south. The Prince, the country’s best men, a burly-accented scullery boy and a chef that was too lean to possibly be a chef were set to leave in four days.

As they walked under fresh garlands of peony roses hung from every rafter and round up every stone column that flanked the hall, Adam decided by Milner’s tone that he didn’t particularly like parties. He would have concluded that the short tone his words – already few – had taken on was due to Robbo now sneezing every time they passed a particularly pungent bunch of flowers, only then Milner began talking about the Prince.

Adam didn’t know much about the first in line to the throne, other than what he’d been told. He’d never even seen him, although it wasn’t as though the royal court often ventured south of late. He knew the prince was blonde, but so were all the royal family. He knew that the prince had been sent to neighboring kingdoms as an envoy. He knew this was an unpopular choice. What he’d heard about the prince himself probably explained that: he wasn’t charismatic, or bookish, or an exemplary solider even though he would have had all of the resources he could have possible wanted at his disposal. No, reports had been that the Prince was decidedly average. Decidedly, well… boring.

But the more he listened to Milner talk about the Prince as they finished crossing the great hall – far larger and grander than the entrance hall – he began to wonder what those reports on the Prince could have missed to inspire such enduring loyalty from the captain of his guard. In the end it wasn’t that Milner even finished more than about five sentences, it was more about the way his back straightened and his chin lifted, that buoyant sense of pride reverberating through his words.

The Prince was preparing for the journey. The Prince would not miss a single detail. His men would not let him down. The men would prove themselves for him, even if I came to battle. Adam was quietly confident that the royal forces sent out on this tour weren’t quite ready for battle – this kind of thing was more like showing off, really – and anyway, they probably considered that they were unlikely to encounter any. He quite got the impression they would follow the Prince over a cliff, despite this. But when he looked over at Robbo to see if he had made the same observation he was started to see that Robbo was furiously rubbing tears from his eyes and was sniveling too loudly to have possibly heard any of it.

 _It_ is _the captain of his guard_ , Adam decided, _unwavering loyalty is in the job description_. But no, the guards and members of the court they passed treated Milner with reverence too. Even the finest dressed members of court nodded their heads in acknowledgment, between their chattery observance of the decorating going on around them. No one paid attention to either Adam or Robbo, which Adam was totally fine with.

This description of their kingdom’s heir was not what Adam had come to expect, and this weighed on him as to how it would affect their strategy. Then again, he had heard reports almost exclusively from the King’s guard. Those who worked for the prince had been harder to source. Maybe the prince’s advisor’s valued that kind of loyalty more than, say, intellect, or experience, or skill.

The prince’s quarters of the castle – the only ones Milner seemed to think they needed to be concerned with for the time being – sat at the far west of the keep. The servants quarters were at one of the bottom rungs of the building, above the kitchen, and noises from it rose up even through the stone floor.

“A lot of staff is required to run this part of the castle,” Milner explained, letting them both peer so far out of the window to take in the expansive yard – hidden between the fine castle gardens and the edge of the west tower - that they nearly toppled out altogether.

It had been a long time since Adam been up at such a high vantage point. Not since he and Robbo had set out on the journey here, weeks ago. The sun hung low now, threatening to dip behind the valley’s edge, the sticky heat still lingering.

The room designated for kitchen staff was small, the beds packed tightly together. But they were beds, and as Adam sat on one to test it, was surprised at the quality of the blankets. It would certainly make a difference from sleeping on mats. So much of a difference that he may not be able to sleep on it at all.

Milner cleared his throat, standing tall in the corner with his hands clasped behind his back.

“While it would be ideal right now to show you the rest of the castle and introduce you to the rest of our traveling staff,” he said, very apologetically, meaning it was definitely something Adam wasn’t going to like hearing, “the celebration tonight means we will need all of the spare hands going.”

And so Adam found himself navigating through the winding halls of the castle he barely knew, transporting ceremonial plates from where they had been stored carefully underneath the castle and were being brushed off to celebrate the Prince and his future exploits to all of the members of the court.

Adam was uncomfortable with the informality of it all. Plates had been pushed into his hands. He had barely had time to remove his riding gear and change into the servant’s tunic – ill fitting, as it would only be temporary, but still better crafted than Adam’s own clothing. He was given vague instructions by one of the many people scurrying around the kitchen: _up the stairs, keep to the left, entrance hall, ask for Virgil when you get there;_ already turned to Robbo and passing on instructions.

 _Brushed off._ The plates had been used recently. They were also the most beautiful plates he’d ever seen: decorated with white enamel; yellow, blue and green. Adam wondered about the amount of banquets this castle must hold, and how often. He thought about the fields they’d passed on the way here, the farmers with bent backs working their lands. All for the courtiers to eat, and eat, and eat.

He was deep in this thought, so deep, that he rounded the corner and collided, very solidly, with someone coming the other way.

Plates smashed. Every single plate smashed. Adam could only glance at the shards of fine plate on the floor – his life, this whole stupid plan flashing before his eyes – before he looked up, and worse. Standing in front of him was Captain Milner, and standing beside Captain Milner – taller, blonder –

Adam’s reflexes kick in, he remembered what he had been told over and over again to do, and he collapsed quickly onto his knees, pressed his forehead into the cool stone floor in genuflection.

He gasped; shock and fright had vacuumed the air from his lungs. Sharp pieces of broken plate cut into his knees. He had meant to speak, but he hadn’t been expecting this to happen so soon.

_Don’t draw attention to yourself. You, Robbo – ships in the night with the royal party._

His heart raced so fast he could barely feel it.

“I apologize,” he managed eventually, babbling because there was no accounting for panic in moments like these. Adam would tell himself later that it was what any green servant would have done. “I am – I will – “ Frantically, he scrabbled for pieces of broken plate with his hand; cold, sharp pieces bit at his skin and then: no. Solid. Soft edges.

He raised his head. Captain Milner remained standing, his chin tucked deep in his neck due to the vantage point, and possibly disapproval. Adam didn’t see him. Instead: Adam’s world turned an impossible blue.

Blue belonged to eyes. Eyes belonged to a face that had sharp ridges for cheeks, and the face was level with him on the floor. Adam didn’t even have time to register what had struck him about it, only that he had very definitely been struck by something, before his eyes dropped to the sash, the impossible filigree of gold thread wound through the clothes, the epaulettes that had sent him into such a tizzy in the first place. The prince’s ceremonial uniform.

The Prince.

The prince, who was on the floor with him, picking up shards of plate that Adam was meant to bring to a celebration of _the prince._

“Uh,” said Adam, dumbstruck.

The prince’s eyebrows drew together, and his sight dropped.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

Adam looked down too. Somewhere, a piece of ceramic had gashed down his arm and it had started to run. Fast.

“Oh,” Adam said, now. He felt light headed. But Adam had been in battle, lived off his wits for almost as long as he’d been alive. The mere sight of blood had never been enough to make him weak. What was going on?

“Does it hurt?” The prince asked now, soft, the words making a gentle lisp past his teeth.

Adam had, not once these past few months, expected to be this close to the heir to the throne. And it threw him. It threw him a lot.

Eyebrows lifted now, and his eyes grew even bigger: trapping Adam like a tide. Adam didn’t want to think about how close they were sitting together on the floor, but then the prince reached one arm out and curled a large hand very carefully around the outside of Adam’s wrist, cradling it as he lifted it closer for observation. The touch was impossibly gentle.

“ _Hendo,_ ” someone said. Adam’s first thought was that it was not addressed at him, and so must be the prince. His second was that no formal title had been used. His third, many seconds after he had managed to digest these things, was that it had come from Captain Milner.

Delayed, his neck snapped up to see the Captain standing to one side, his hands held behind his back, straight as a pole. The Prince’s head moved at the same time to look. _Delayed_. The word floated around Adam’s head about the movement, but he did not have the capacity to place it. So distracted was he by the many wrinkles in the prince’s brow.

Adam expected a correction, an apology from the Captain for not addressing ranks. None came.

“You’re going to be late,” Milner continued instead. He inclined his head towards the end of the corridor. “It’s not a good day to be late.”

“It’s never a good day to be late,” the Prince replied. _In jest._ Then he nodded his head at Adam. “He’s _bleeding._ What if there’s some of that glass in the wound?” He meant the enamel, shattered all on the floor.

Milner looked at Adam now, still half cowered onto the floor. His eyes lifted skywards.

“Fine,” he said eventually, with a sigh.

The Prince looked back at Adam, and Adam felt the weight of his gaze again.

 _It’s not me,_ he realized, his stomach dropping a little uncomfortably, _he’s trying to get out of some royal duty. I’m just a distraction._

But there was no hint of mischief in his eyes. The Prince looked deadly serious, hardened in the sudden line of his jaw.

“We’ll take you to Joel,” he said evenly, “he’ll have something. A salve. And he’ll look. Incase there’s some broken pieces of plate.”

Adam wanted to reply with a “sure”, and “okay” or even a “who is Joel?”, but he was still rendered dumb.

He had heard so much about this prince. The last three months of his life had been exclusively based on this prince, and everything he heard and learned he knew could not possibly be true. But he’d never heard, it had never even been _hinted,_ that the prince was the kind of man who crawled around on his hands and knees with his subjects. Adam knew from personal experience that the King, for example, was not that kind of man.

“Can you stand?” The prince asked, his hand still on him. “You look very pale.”

Adam nodded. The Prince’s hardened expression made his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief. He did feel a bit dizzy as he rightened himself. Blood flowed from his arm, he could see it splashed onto the white of the plates still littering the floor.

“Milly,” the Prince said, while looking at Adam, and Adam had no idea what that meant. Then Captain Milner – _oh, Milly. Wait – what? –_ replied.

“Yes,” he said, alert for the coming command.

Adam looked on in awe. Nicknames were for close friends, close comrades. Robbo had always been _Robbo_ after all. Such niceties didn’t transcend rank.

It meant that the Prince and the Captain of his guard were _friends_.

The Prince looked like he was going to continue, then he frowned at the bloodied plates on the floor, as if he’d only just noticed them. He reached for the linen sash strapped across his front, all gold-fringe; and lifted it over his head. When he touched Adam it was again without warning, and Adam was so alarmed by the frisson of something where the Prince’s careful fingers made to smooth down his forearm, that he shrank back, clutching at it. He felt pain in the wound for the first time at the sudden movement, and he whimpered.

The prince’s jaw slackened. “It’s okay,” he promised gently. He beckoned carefully with his fingers, as if summoning a small dog. Adam resented the fact that he was clearly considered dim. He stepped forward gingerly. The prince took another half step towards him, right up to him, closer even than they had been on the floor when they’d bumped into each other.

Up this close, Adam saw every small etch in his face, that he had deep, stress creases under his eyes – a man clearly worn down by his position, again contrary to what Adam had heard of his character - that his nose was a straight line, that the arch of his cheeks with that small smile was really quite lovely, actually. Adam thought he would make a fitting prince of legend, the kind depicted on a tapestry.

Adam told himself to stop thinking.

And then, worse: the sash was wound around his arm, very carefully. And then pulled. Very tight. Adam stiffened with the sharp pain, felt his shoulders draw up towards his ears and was stopped from withdrawing again by a very firm grip.

“Send someone to clean this up,” the Prince said, loud enough so that Milner would hear behind him. He met Adam’s eyes, blue, everything. Endless spirals that outdid the gold of his sash for brilliance, right when he smiled. “Tell them I’ll be with them shortly.”

“Sir – “

“It’s my party, they can wait.” He said it almost pleasantly. Then, “what’s your name?”

He was still so close that the breath of the question tickled Adam’s cheek, rendering him, once again; speechless.

“He’s the new cook, for military duty,” Milner said, filling in the gap. “He arrived today, with the scullery boy.”

“Adam,” Adam found his voice. “Adam. I’m Adam. Adam Lallana. Sir,” he finished, feeling his cheeks grow every warmer. He wondered if the prince could feel the heat. Then, “I’m going to ruin it,” he said desperately, about the blood gathering on the royal sash.

Royal iconography went against everything he stood for. Yet he despaired about all the careful work that had clearly gone into weaving such a fine garment, and that he was now staining it permanently with the proceeds of his own clumsiness.

For the first time, the Prince’s face cracked into an open grin. It was as brilliant as his eyes.

“The cook for our tour?” He said, “well, your arm is already more valuable than any sash. I have to keep the pressure on it, to stop the flow. Come,” he said.

They walked, the Prince’s hands still pressing down on the wound. For sure, Adam had had worse. This stung intermittently, yet pulsing strongly against the hands that held it in place.

Being in this palace only a matter of hours, Adam had no idea where he was being led. He also had no idea what to say, because this was not what he had been expecting.

He had seen, how in the royal court even the courtiers prostrated to the royal family in over-exaggerated curtsies. He’d seen it with his own eyes when he had been very small, had been told nothing had changed. But clearly the prince’s household worked differently.

The prince had spoken to him directly. Again, not something prescribed by formal court etiquette. The prince had addressed his inferior directly. The prince had touched him, a member of kitchen staff, the lowest rung. _The prince was still touching him._

The rumors that had circulated about the prince had also led him to expect none of this. He had heard that this prince was too soft on his subjects, too awkward in gait, unfit to rule, not his father, not a leader.

Certainly, Adam could see that the prince was too soft. Soft on enforcing etiquette, soft on his servants – had he even raised his voice, even begun to chide Adam for breaking valuable plates when they were sorely needed?

Soft, gentle where he touched Adam now.

But Adam had got the impression, for all that he had heard, all that he had been taught – he’d heard no stories of conquests, nor of endless courtships. And having been in close proximity to the prince for several minutes now, and having been able to observe the lines of his face with some detail, observe his build to be athletic, that of a soldier and certainly not overly pampered – he could not understand why.

Surely this prince was handsome enough for it to be reported widely? Adam knew his own taste wasn’t that refined – so he was not the first person to notice it.

He felt as though the silence hung heavy as they walked. Adam had no idea what to say. Adam was sure at no point was he meant to have met the Prince in person, not on this mission. He’d already messed that up.

It was barely a minute before they encountered someone coming the other way. Dressed in servant’s garb and carrying what appeared to be a large ream of cloth, Adam expected some recognition of rank, for them to bow, or at least address the prince somehow. Instead, they saw the prince leading Adam, their eyebrows waggled to indicate curiosity, they gave the prince a curt nod and continued on their way. The prince graced them with a nod back, but then continued without missing a beat.

Adam cleared his throat with great difficulty. There appeared to be a large lump in it.

“Your Highness,” he began, a word he was clearly not used to saying, but the prince turned to him as they walked so it must have been one he was otherwise used to hearing.

“Yes?” He asked, his eyebrows mashed together with concern. “Are you alright?”

Adam probably did not look alright. But it was probably for none of the reasons the prince was considering.

Adam suddenly recognized where they were. They were back in the servant’s quarters of the prince’s wing. He did not know it well enough yet to understand that the next door they would push through led to the kitchen itself.

Adam had been used to cooking over fires for many. The mass of pots, pans, plates, copper moulds, stoves – this kitchen was an operation.

“I need Joel,” the prince said to the servant scurrying past, this one with an apron tied around his waist.

“He’s in the usual place,” came the reply, again with no deference, and then after a quick look at the fact that the Prince had both his hands around Adam’s arm: “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” Scathingly.

Adam just about didn’t flinch now when no title was used. _You’d swear it was something I respected._

“He’s hurt,” the prince said, “he needs to see Joel.”

The servant looked right at Adam. Then he looked him up and down.

“This is… unlike you,” he sniffed. “Joel’s in the cool room.”

The Prince nodded, smiling like he got the joke.

Somewhere halfway across the wide expanse of castle kitchen Adam found his voice. It was a reply.

“It’s a nice kitchen, isn’t it?” The Prince asked, suddenly. Small talk. Adam could understand why he’d felt the need, and also why that had been his question.

“Why don’t they – _address you_?” He blurted out. “Your Highness,” he added, quickly.

“I’ve asked them not to,” the Prince replied simply.

“Why?”

“I don’t like it.” He said it like they were equals, like this was a casual conversation about the weather.

Braver, “then what should I call you?”

The prince stopped at the door opposite. He looked like he hadn’t been expecting the question. Then he looked delighted at the question.

“Jordan,” he said. “That’s my name. But,” he nodded back towards the kitchen, Adam guessed at everyone else, “it seems a step too far for most people, so I don’t expect it.”

 _Jordan._ Adam did know that this was the prince’s birth name. But he’d always considered it somewhat ancillary to the title, like an afterthought or a mere formality.

Jordan opened the door.

Joel – a very tall, thin man wearing the same kitchen uniform – looked equally unimpressed to see the Prince in the kitchen.

“He has _legs_ ,” he said, pointing at Adam, “he could have walked himself here.”

“He’s new,” the prince said, not in the least put out.

Joel looked Adam up and down. Adam shivered. They were certainly in the cool room, down a long set of steps into the basement. It smelled of curing meat, some of which Joel had clearly been retrieving.

Joel walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a box.

“It’s a good thing you found me here,” he was saying, dragging a stool out now from the wall. “We don’t have this kind of thing usually.”

“Your Prince commands you.” Yet, this sounded like a joke.

Joel beckoned at Adam and then pointed at the bench. “Come,” he said. Then, to the prince, “you can go now.”

When Adam turned, he supposed later to thank him, the prince was watching him carefully.

“Joel will look after you,” he said. He didn’t move. In fact, he looked stuck; not a good quality in a diplomat.

Adam found his voice. It was hard. It was like those eyes saw right through him.

“Thank you,” he said. Heartfelt. And then as the hands lifted from him, the word came out small: “Jordan.”

There was a pause. And then another brilliant smile, even more so from the softness of it’s delivery.

He felt dizzy again as he sank into his chair.

“Idiot,” Joel was murmuring. He was rooting through his bag on the floor, half-knelt in front of Adam.

“Excuse me?”

Joel fixed half of his teeth on the cork of a bottle he’d pulled from the bag, and tugged. It released with a satisfying _pop._

“Not _you_ ,” he said, “although,” he started to unwrap the sash, “you know what? I’m not even going to ask. It’s a good thing he brought you to me but I meant,” he nodded at the door, “ _that_ idiot.”

He was calling his prince an idiot. To Adam, whom he barely knew. Joel was doing it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Why?” Adam asked.

“Because,” Joel sniffed the rim of the bottle now, and seemed pleased with the result, “the last thing we all need are more court rumors about him being unfit for practice. Honestly. He should no better than to start helping out strays at the expense of his favor with the court – now, hold still.”

“But he helped me.”

“There are more important things,” Joel said, “than you.” The salve ran down Adam’s wound and seared like a white-hot poker. “Sorry, I should have mentioned that was going to hurt,” he added, an afterthought to Adam’s shriek of pain.

* * *

Robbo found him back in their rooms.

“I heard,” he said, breathlessly falling through the door, “that tall guy – apron – pointy elbows – “

“Joel,” Adam concluded. He cradled his arm close, properly bandaged, no longer bleeding as he leaned against the window. It was a cool, clear night and this side of the castle was hidden from the festivities. He could enjoy the arc of the distant mountains illuminated by the moon, with the slightest hint of the party coming to a conclusion at the far side of the castle, the sounds and smells of it only just reaching his ears when the wind blew.

“Yeah,” Robbo said. Adam felt him hesitate, and then cross the room. “ _How._ We’ve been here like a minute. Can’t you manage to avoid nearly dying for like,” he hinged at his hip out the window, trying to lean far enough that he would somehow meet Adam’s eyes as he stared resolutely straight ahead, “ _one day_. Right when we had to make a good first impression.”

Robbo was only angry, Adam could tell, because he was upset Adam was hurt.

“How was it?” Adam asked. Damaged goods as he was, he hadn’t been allowed near the farewell celebrations by Joel. Despite the circumstances Adam quite liked the guy. He had also been full of praise for his prince.

“Nothing we weren’t told to expect,” Robbo said, retracting enough to lean on his elbows now, the both of them snug together on the windowsill. “The whole palace fell to the floor when the king walked in. The prince himself looks,” he sniffed, “smaller than I thought he’d be.”

“Hey,” Adam said, “here’s a funny story.” But how much of it to tell? “I literally ran into him earlier. I dropped all those plates I was carrying.” He waved his bandaged arm a little to demonstrate the result, which was a mistake, because it made it throb and hurt a whole lot.

“Who,” Robbo asked, his jaw dropping, “the _prince_?”

“Yeah,” Adam said. _He was kind, he was handsome. He looked after me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him._ All things he knew better than to say. “Right before I was sent off to get patched up.”

Robbo must have heard something in his tone, because he frowned. “And?”

“And nothing,” Adam lied. “What?”

Robbo paused, his face half illuminated by the moon. “We’re here,” he said in a low voice, “to help with the revolution to remove the royal family and finally make this country one run by the people.”

Adam was silent.

“It’s what we’ve been planning for _years_. And since the prince is probably going to be the first casualty,” Robbo shook his head, “I wouldn’t get too attached, is all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have only a vague notion of where this is going and how long it will be, so I will take all comments, concrit!! It’s been a while since I’ve written anything and I’m aware it’s not to my usual standard. Bear with me while I rediscover my form!


End file.
